The water is warm — steeped in crushed herbs and northern oils, their scent curling into the steam like a lullaby. Lavender, juniper, maybe thyme. Earthy and old, grounding. The stone tub is deep, carved centuries ago into the bathing chamber off your quarters, worn smooth by time and use. You sink lower, chin just above the surface, knees drawn in, hair damp and clinging to your temples. Your eyes are closed. The hearth crackles behind you.

And then — soft, deliberate — the door creaks open.

You don’t need to look. You’d know Satoru tread even through a thunderstorm. That lazy, fluid way he moves. Arrogant and too casual for a nobleman’s son, but with the sharpness of someone who’s always calculating.

He says nothing as he steps in. Just shuts the door with a quiet scrape of hinges. His cloak’s already slung over one shoulder, half-undone, dripping melt from the snow outside. The hilt of his sword gleams in the firelight. A half-empty bottle of blackberry wine dangles from his long fingers.

You lift your head slightly. Watch him through the steam as he drops unceremoniously to the stone floor across from the tub, back hitting the cold stone wall with a muted thunk. His legs stretch out in front of him, boots scuffed. His pale hair is damp and unruly, curling at the ends from melting frost.

“You’re being indecent,” you murmur. “I’m naked, you know.”

Satoru grins, wine bottle raised lazily. “You say that like I’ve never seen a body before. Or that I’m not being a perfect gentleman sitting all the way over here.”

You arch a brow. “You're rarely a gentleman. And never perfect.”

He chuckles. It’s a tired sound — low and fraying at the edges. He takes a long drink and leans his head back again, eyes closed. The firelight licks at his cheekbones, throws shadows into the hollows beneath his eyes. He looks… worn. Not broken, never that — but pulled thin by the weight of too much responsibility, too much war.

Satoru was never supposed to stay. The second son of House Gojo, he’d been sent north to be fostered under your father’s roof — a political move. But he’d stayed past his years, lingered past duty. And somewhere between the fencing lessons and the snide remarks at council dinners, he became a fixture. A storm you stopped bracing yourself against.

Now, Satoru is a myth with a sword. The White Wolf they call him — your father’s deadliest weapon. And you — the only one who’s ever really known him.

“You’re brooding again,” Satoru says, not bothering to open his eyes.

“And you’re drunk.”

“Only a little. Helps with the cold. And your company," Satoru returns easily as he takes a sip of his wine.

You exhale, letting your head tip back against the rim of the tub.

“Do you remember when we were children, and you used to sneak into the kitchens and steal the honey cakes?” Satoru asks, watching you from under his lowered lashes, how the water and steam cling to you, water sloshing at your shouders, looking utterely at peace despite him risking your septa coming in and screaming bloody murder at the sight of him intruding your private bathing chambers.

"Why the sudden bout of nostalgia?" you muse, dragging water over your arms, hair loose for once, tumbling down and damp.

Satoru rolls his eyes and takes another lazy pull of his wine unsure if its the drink or the steam that's leaving him dizzy. He thinks you have some part to do with it — the lord’s daughter sitting naked in a stone tub, water beading at your skin, with a man no decent lady should entertain after nightfall.

"Do you or do you not remember?" Satoru mutters lazily.